His teeth were coarse and gristly, like the deadly dreams and fantastic consequence of a hobo drifting through time immortal, clutching the cold fingers of the goddess head. And putting them in his mouth. Chompy chomp.

The Old Demon of Canberra

Maurice balanced the plates along his arm, their lips interlocking in the crook of his elbow. He then began to stack the teacups on the plates, the gravy boat, the butter dish. He took the Duchesses silver in his left hand. He reached down the table with two fingers to take Abdul Walli Wud's silver. 

He backed away from the table and walked across the purple carpet, beneath the spinning candelabras, and entered the kitchen. 

Wud had not touched his food, Maurice noted with disgust. This heathen. This savage dressed in linen who had no appreciation for the hospitality of the duchess...

Maurice stopped himself from going down that dark mental rabbit hole that descended into bile and anger and invariably ended with bloody knuckles and a rumpled cummerbund. 

He set down the dishes and considered speaking to Chef Chuck, but thought better of it. The rotund chef stood over the stove, tasting soups, holding the spoon with his pinky out, and generally acting like a stereotype. 

Maurice didn't feel like opening that door. 

He sighed, and stood there in the kitchen, stealing a moments contemplation before he returned to the dining room. 

Maurice was eternally grateful to the noble family of Downton Abbey for allowing him a place in their household, and allowing him to ascend from lowly assistant chauffeur to footman to valet and finally to butler. It was a huge transformation for the man who spent his adolescence on the wrong side of the law, on the other side of the world. 

Maurice spent his youth as the most dangerous and reviled outlaw the Australian outback would ever know. At 9 years old he killed his first man, immediately followed by the man's entire family. There was a savagery to his attacks that set the entire country on edge. 

Maurice had been born the son of convicts. His father was a rapist and his mother had been a flim flam artist, robbing rich men blind with her looks and charm. 

They were bad parents though. They had no delusions about their abilities however, and as a baby they sold Maurice to an aboriginal tribe. The tribes shaman took the boy in, and locked him in the Cave of Dreams. Maurice spent the next 7 years in the cave, immersed in that mystical transcendent ether the natives called the Dreaming. He communed with gods and monsters before he developed a spark of humanity, and when he emerged as a child of seven years, he had no relation to his fellow man, and no concept of good or evil. He was a force for action, and the shaman quickly sent him out to destroy the white settlers, and restore the natural balance of the sand. 

Maurice recalled all of this with a cold hard look. He had set out across the desert where he was taken in by the rancher and his family. He witnessed the slaughter that occurred on the farm, and when the rancher attempted to extract payment for room and board, late at night and through bodily means, Maurice had no qualms about beginning his ten year journey of destruction and bloodshed in the name of natural order. 

That all drew to a close in the Red mountains that day long ago, when Elizabeth had sacrificed herself for him, and that black deep nightmare had left her arcane mark on his soul...

Maurice shook his head. Memories of the tramp steamer, the port at Cornwall, and his circuitous route to Downton tumbled through his mind. Everything lost shape after Elizabeth. 

Maurice was shaken out of his reverie when he felt a tug at his sleeve. He looked down with fury, ready to snap when he saw the young kitchen boy, Little Tommy Hanks, staring up at him. 

"Mister Maurice! They are ready for dessert!"

The Day After Lou Reed Died Someone Did Something Stupid While Listening to White Light White Heat

After their work, they slogged through the bog until they reached the roadway outside Downtonderry. 

The sun was rising and the air was cold and it was a nice day. The road by the bog was covered fog that was misty and crispy and fey. 

They walked down the road with the puppies in tow, being dragged in the slats of a barrel.

They made a quick stop at the medicine shop where they sold the misc. bits via haggle. 

And once they were done it was time for some rum, so they hit up the pub, Claude and Daryl. 

And they found themselves again arguing, over needless details disarming. Their lives had descended in cadence when the lost the dread dark queen's radiance in the murk and the mire's allegiance. 

...

Claude looked up from the scrawls on the paper; his whiskey and his porridge were set aside on the pub common table. He turned the paper over, and over again. Daryl had written his name in large block letters on the back, and the words "beyewtiful pomes" at the top of the page followed by "our story" beneath it. There was a lot of exposition on the page. He looked across the table where he met Daryl's eyes, staring back expectantly at him. Daryl's hands cradled his chin, elbows on the table. They were still spattered with puppy blood. 

Claude drew in a breathe. 

"Sure sure. Yeah..."

This magic lamp takes a lot of goddamn time

More Ham

The Dowager sat across from Abdul Walli Wud.  Even with the space of twelve spinning candleabras and the china with the disaproving faces it still seemed far too intimate for her.  If her father had only seen this.  Uppity bog people, science disproving angels, and now this across from this man whose name sounded as if a child was having a seizure with a mouth full of grapes.  I must make sure he doesn't mistake any of the draperies for his evening suit.  She almost laughed inside and put her napkin up to her mouth.  No that would never do she coughed a little.   She wondered if el Walli Wud was using a napkin and she wondered how one could even tell.  She almost laughed again and checked her wine glass thinking she may have had a sip too many.

Abdul's dark eyes were darting about the dinning hall.  She had seated him next to the most colonel in the service and her most flatuent distant cousin.  But even still Abdul was ripping through the carefully crafted and finely honed stuffiness.  He was aware of his alieness and was careful not to alienate but at the same time never appeared to be shrinking into one of the countesses diminutive breeding experiments.

It was at least a time when she could appreciate her age.  As she watched Abdul from across the table she saw the sly smirk of his lips and the quick dark pools of his eyes that some how despite their color transmitted a lightness that was almost ethereal.  All things have a place and when the flesh is no longer soft it must stay hard.  As the kore that hold up the parthenon.  The aged must stand firm while the young flesh squibles about and when they finally recoil in shame then they shall take the place.  And with any luck like the Kore of Greece may she one day be retired to the British Museums permanent collection.  She could see that smile of his.  The sly boy thought he could pry the world open with a look and maybe he could to most it was entirely possible the whole world has lost its head. 

"Yes my dear, once, when Gilbert was still alive, we traveled to Constantinoble.  He was research a branch of his family tree that he believied had fled after the fall of the empire. "

"Oh! yes my lady then you have been to the east."

"Yes you can tell that the Hagia Sophia must have, at one time, been a very lovely place."

"Yes outstanding a true jewel!  I was wondering if you have ever traveled abroad, I noticed you must not be aware of our peculiar habit of not eating pork.  I have noticed that every dish is largely pork based."

"Why! Abdul Walli Wud, I am ever so sorry.  I am sure I had mentioned it to Maurice, I don't know why he didn't adjust the menu.  He must've been to busy it has been the harvest time for us.  It is habit, that is just how we do things here."

"Madame don't think any more of it.  As it happens this is earlier then I am accustomed to dine and in fact I was worried I would have to feign an appetite.  But the whole reason for these dinners is for the company and for your immense hospitality I propose a toast.  You see I do not share all the asceticism of my country men, to Downtown Abbey!"

"To Downtown Abbey!"

As the glasses clinked the waitstaff brought out desert, pistachios and figs suspended in a pork lard.

Carriage Black

The Two Towers

The interior of the west tower looked more like a root cellar. Once you got inside, the eaves of the roof made the ceiling droop and hang around your shoulders. The atmosphere was hot and oppressive. A large desk sat squat under the small window. It was covered with melted candles and scraps of paper.
In the dark corners of the tower, clouded shapes undulated in the shadows. A slow breath; a Heartbeat.
The doctor's instruments were laid out on a small table to the side of the  desk. There were various steel probes and knives. A roll of gauze. Some unidentifiable remnants of gore that were missed in the routine cleaning. A large tome lay open on the floor, the pages dog eared and stained. The writing was inscrutable.
This was Dr. Eustratio Bananis' laboratory, perched high above the Downton Abbey courtyard.
A plaintive mewling groan came from the dark recesses of the shadows; the sound of chains clinking.

The second tower was located 50 miles east. In London.
The House of Lords met in Big Ben. There was a little room underneath the clock face, and  there the lord representatives sat, discussing fox hunts and steamer ships and the latest scientific research disproving the existence of angels. The House of Commons met in the Parliament building proper, but the lords preferred the secret room in the clock tower, were everyone sat around on pillowed cushions, smoking the hookah and composing haikus. When they were bored, they would venture out onto the rail underneath the clock face and act out scenes for the public, who never questioned the uncanny humanity of Big Ben's automatons.
Here Lord Kevin Pancreus sat with The Earl of Steve.
"We have a problem at the Downton Abbey, dear Earl. Lady Bathilde does not want to marry our Persian lord."

"That's no problem seat Kevin" said the earl. I never understood why the council was so fixated on bringing the easterners into the picture anyway."  The earl lazily tore the head off a fish and squeezed the body into a bowl. He rubbed the contents on his hands and face.

"The sin eaters have ... Experience with the matters in which we find ourselves involved, dear Earl. Abdul Walli Wud is a strong player to have in our corner when all of the pieces come to play."

"I disagree dear Kevin. I have the utmost faith in our dear doctor. He will come through for us, as his line always has. The uprising in the bog is standard. The gypsies have been a small annoyance since the days of Caerma'coth. I have no doubt that they will continue to be a non factor. We must keep our faith in Bananis, and trust his scions to hold up their end of the bargain. The ceremony will proceed as planned."

Lord Kevin opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He looked at the Earl.

They were interrupted by the grand doors opening and a procession of naked young ladies, with flowers in their hair, leading a dozen goats into the room on leashes of braided heather.
"Delightful!" said the Earl, before Kevin had formed a response. "Here come the goats!"

Claude and Daryl Score

"This where we came out last spring, Cecila and I after the maypole celebration I had some of the strand left from the pole the good kind you now from Joseph with the beady little eyes and the breath like dank horse vomit he's a real fuck but he knows about making the lines for the poles he makes is straps from scraps cause they let him clean the abatior the filthy fuck he does it for the scraps dries em on the line of that filthy little encampment of his down where the creek gets shallow and it either smells like deer piss or is flooding some grand muddy mess.  Anyway so I had this strap and I was holding it you know kind of behind my back well I actually had two you see and Cilla was holding the other wrapped around her wrist like holding herself up she was so drunk I said I know this is the way back to the village don't worry about a thing were going of course thats what I'm saying you know but right where veering a little I was sort of you know whatching her face and I know you know what I know, a path diverge in the woods like..."

Claude and Daryl where on the other side of the bog and Claude was getting seriously tired of Daryls shit.  He had no idea why Daryl was compelled to paint himself in this light.  This boy who bathes in a smock. 

"an then so her arms wrapped around the log and I have the other one there and her bare ass in the moon light I take the other strap and..."

Is this how people think they are to impress me?  Is there some rumor that I am the mushroom of the village thriving on ample bullshit.  Is it just to amuse.  Dear lord does he have an erection. 

"Shh Daryl I think I hear something..."

The soft rustle.  It was near now.

"You want me to?"

"Daryl, you are the best"

Daryl's face goes calm he sniffs a bit then pips a little squeeky bark.  He waits a minute then again.  Then waiting and as Claude is about to step on a response.  A pip.  Daryl does it again shuffling feet to not disturb a branch.  The pips return louder this time and then they move closer.  Daryl massaging the call and response to a frenzy until they are right over it.

"And here lad"

Claude puts a shovel in the dark earth and the earth collapses revealing the dugout and 6 tiny mewing pups.

"Ah no seven look at that one"
"I don't even know if that one will count"
"Bird in the hand my friend"
"Well quickly now"

They lift the pups and begin chopping off their tails.  Claude is done with three before the Daryl even completes one.  He never sharpens his blade.  No rocks on the bog he always says.  The short and gruesome work is done the whimpering pups back in the disturbed nest in a state of shock or death.  Claude realizes how close to dusk it is momentarily worried.  They should be fine.  They will have a good collection by the time the boar hunters come back.  They will take the tails and curl them and sell them to the hunters.  The hunters after dropping the pig carcasses off at the abattoir get paid by the tails they present the field accountant.  The unscrupulous hunters which are nearly all of them will pay for the counterfeit tails.  This is one of the ways the people across the bog have managed to cling on since their land and husbandry rights where stripped after they rose up against the Abbey three generations ago.

The mewing pups could still be heard as they walked briskly through the forest.  The blood drying on his hands the weight of the limp worms in his satchel.  The hunger in his belly the discomfort of his shoes and clothing. 

"So then Cecila.." started Claude
"Oh yeah man well she was howling like a banshee and of course at that time I'm getting a bit wicked myself so then yeah did I say I had three straps thats right I had three so anyway..."

And so it was across the bog.

They always seem longer when I am writing them on the toilet

Deep in the mire of the moor, laden with wisps of fog laced through dead trees, the cult of Ys gathered around the standing stone.
A blue green haze drifted through the crowd, buoyed by the thick English air.
A man stood atop the cairn and held court over the crowd. Cecil stood at the edge of the group, and strained on his toes to see to the center.
The man looked like a caricature of a bushman from the Strand. A Dr. Livingstonesque cartoon, a pile of leaves and hair with four naked limbs sprouting out. Two bright clear eyes exploded from the tangle, and their expression was urgent.
"Brothers! He said" he said to the crowd.
"The brotherhood of Ys must stand strong in the face of opposition and holocaust! He roared to the crowd" he roared to the crowd.
"THE CROWD ROARED BACK!"
Taking his cue, the crowd of men roared back in support.
"Brothers we are defined by our genetics and the difference in stem of a piece of science. One branch of X removed to become more, the Y. We, the sons of Ygdrassil, the world root, must remain strong! We hold the earth in our hands and it sifts through our fingers like yeast on a bakers bench. Jerks are a universe thick brothers!"
Moonlight broke through the most and outlined the speaker against the standing stone. Behind him, Ygdrassil, the world tree, climbed up to the sky, shooting beams of light into the eyes of the watchers.
"You have seen what they call progress. You know what they profess. With their automatons and their telegraphs. They cling to the tea service like it was the teat of the wolf mother of Romulus and Remus. But we say no! No to your humanity and your social mores. No to tea service and concrete! We follow the night! The nocturnal! A trio of trios, the nine breasted provider K'Mallmamoth! A wedding of the gods of the north with the goddess of the universe's deepest abyss! The man SCREAMED!" the man screamed at the rapt audience.
"THE CROWD ROARED IN REPLY, THE MAN SCREAMED!"
The crowd roared in reply.
"DOWNTON ABBEY WILL BE RENT ASUNDER AND FALL INTO DARKNESS!"

Across the moor, the Dowager Countess vomited again. This time just a little, in her mouth.

In which the Fisher King wears a new face and crumbles into the sea.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the monster and the dying girl.

Tall and black and full of ghosts, the window to the car was dark entropy. It breathed in and out.

The door opened and the stair mechanism descended. The witch came first, followed by the squat and decaying dowager countess, dressed in black and sagging under the weight of her giant Indian headdress, as was the style in America at the time.

The monster looked up from his painting, his hand resting above the canvas. It was a painting of nine boobies.

The countess ignored the artist and walked past, to the pile of pig carcasses stacked in the field next to the railroad car. The witch turned to address the monster.

"Foreman, is the delivery ready?"

"Yes it is ready to go."

"Where is the train? Shouldn't it be here by now? This meat shouldn't sit in the sun like this."

The monster looked up at the grey sky. The sun hadn't shined in a week. The air felt like a dead thing draped on the shoulders of a bear, emulating the appearance of a rich old lady.
"The meat will be fine" he said.

The duchess did not turn away from the meat. She stuck a finger in the pile. She pulled away a pig's ear and stuffed it in her mouth, chewing large bites. The ear began to dissolve, masticated in her little goblin teeth.

The duchess's eyes went wide. She froze.

The witch turned to her. "What is the matter mistress?" She asked.

There was no answer. The witch turned to the monster. "Where is this meat from?"

The monster pointed across the moor, to the barren swamp. The witch went cold.

Her back still turned to them, the dowager countess, the duchess of muchess, spoke, quietly, softly, but with an unearthly force:

"I said I can see through time. This is a crime story. A true tale of crime."

Her hand fell to her side.

What lies the Ys?

The Dowager Princess threw up in the car as Cecil while walking upstream encountered a dead goose in the water it was a terrible sight to see filtered through hydration patterns

Cecil sat down in the sun until his stomach settled then he walked like a giant bobble head back to the camp.



The group is men who have breed a lazy double Y chromosome <gif of Y laying down> this was out of love for efficiency  
They travel in time and have sex in exotic places

The guys talk:
When will a sociopath do the decent thing and holocost sociopaths
I think thats what they do do
When will those sociopaths do something for society
That happened
If you were a sociopath
whose every gesture had unintended miraculous consequences
would you feel bad about yourself?
I guess as long as your sociopath engine is humming
Society would be something if it wasn't for those sociopaths
Everybody smiling and happy
Orderly completion of projects
The smiling trashmen
The smiling trashpeople
Yeah happy because people put their trash in an orderly manner
Traffic  in general
Traffic without sociopaths
Thats amazing
Thats something to think about
This is good yeah
But it could never work
who would perform all the atrocities on the socioopaths
Maybe a poison
Or a pill
Sometthing you know that a normal non sociopath could tolerate doing before wiping out the entire population of sociopathic individuals
For better traffic
The traffic is ghastly
We travel through time
We might be immortals
Stop talking about it
Its off topic
Just get a suicidal sociopath and have program a machine to kill sociopaths
Give the sociopaths medicine for sociopathy but gives them cancer                                     ...?
Then you would have a bunch of sociopaths with nothing to live for
Isn't that what we want want them to live for
or as it does
Might not want to have the sociopaths program the robots
Jerks are a universe thick